I always thought people with attention-deficit disorder were noticeable. Socially inappropriate. Hyperactive. The ‘bad’ kids. The children who, on a daily basis, were twiddling their thumbs in the Principal’s office. Perhaps some are. I was not.
Growing up at home, my parents always grew frustrated with me because I could never finish a task. Dry a few dishes, then walk away. Fold a few clothes. Done. Frequently losing train of thought while in conversation. Anger issues. Cleaning the bathroom I used? Nightmare. I always began with great intentions. Three hours and 2 rooms later, I was further from being finished than when I started. My parents thought I was merely a typical, chore hating child. Not so (much).
Throughout school I found myself bored, working on homework that was chapters ahead of that which we were learning in class. I didn’t study. I didn’t have to. Either I understood a subject or I didn’t. I thought it was as simple as that. It wasn’t until nursing school that I learned that wasn’t the case.
It was when I began a college level education, that I knew something was wrong. This wasn’t easy anymore. I had to study and I couldn’t. I was unable to comprehend test questions. Listening to an instructor lecture? Not a chance. And thus began the downward spiral into several years of polymedication and misdiagnosis.
I remember the first time I visited the doctor, attempting to explain the problems I was having. I was nervous. Insecure.
“What are your symptoms?”
“Difficulty concentrating. Unable to sleep. My brain feels heavy. It’s full. Overloaded.”
“Hmmm. I believe you may be depressed.”
Celexa. That was the first medication I tried. The first of many. I remember it well. It caused me to fall asleep in the middle of the day. In class. Despite sleeping for 12 hours the night before. I felt a bit better. I thought I did. The pseudo-narcoleptic fits interfered with my learning a bit too much. He then prescribed me Wellbutrin.
“This is a great drug. You’re young, you shouldn’t smoke. This will help you quit.”
“Ok.”
It didn’t help me quit. Drug after drug. After drug. After drug. I began to think that maybe this was just all in my head. An excuse for not wanting to apply myself. Perhaps I was lazy. I began to feel dumb. Maybe I was crazy. Meanwhile, I struggled through the classroom part of nursing school. I tried to study. I couldn’t retain the information. In the clinical portion of my education, I was outstanding. Yet, the problem still lingered. Why doesn’t my brain work? I visited different doctors. They introduced me to antipsychotic medications. Seroquel. Risperdal. I know what it’s like to be a zombie. Anti-anxiety medications. Ativan. Xanax. More anti-depressants. Lexapro. Effexor. Cymbalta. Zoloft. Sleeping pills. Ambien. Restoril. Lunesta. Trazadone. Nothing worked. Some made it all worse.
Somehow I made it through school and even managed to pass my boards. Things were a bit better. The anti-depressants did help when I lost my Dad. At least the doctor told me they did. I think they caused me to postpone my grief. Suppose it doesn’t matter much now. I still felt chaotic inside. I was able to control it at work. Organized to the point of near psychosis. I fooled everyone. At home, though, things were much different. Laundry. Bills. Impulsive spending. I tried to clean but couldn’t stay in one room long enough to get anything done. I still wasn’t sleeping. Around this time, I injured my back and began to see a physician that I worked with. He asked me why I was on antidepressants. I explained. He replied.
“Has anyone ever thought about the possibility that you may have ADD?”
“Uh, no. I didn’t have problems in school. Really. Until after high school.”
“I have a checklist that I want you to complete. After that, I’m going to have you look at a list of symptoms of adult ADD.”
I read the list.
“Zoning out. Extreme distractibility. Poor listening skills. Poor organizational skills. Poor self-control. Addictive tendencies. Act recklessly or spontaneously. Hyperfocus. Irritability or mood swings. Talking excessively. Racing thoughts. Inner restlessness, agitation. Craving for excitement. Impulsiveness. Quick tempered.”
“I think that list was written about me.”
I could relate to every single symptom on that paper. Not a few. Every single one of them. Since then, for the most part, I’ve taken medication to help me. It took awhile to find the right thing. Some people argue that I need to just focus more. “Have more willpower. It’s all in your head.” I wish it were that simple. I wish I didn’t have to fight with the insurance for approval to be prescribed something that allows me to funtion (somewhat) normally. I still struggle. I remain disorganized. Scattered. Impulsive. Perhaps it’s a part of me that can never be fixed. I’ve accepted that.
As I sit here at this moment and type this blog, I’m fighting with my brain. I haven’t slept well this week. My mind is racing. I feel anxious inside. I haven’t taken the ADD medication in eight days. The authorization through my insurance expired. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could get by without it. I was hopeful. Too hopeful. Part of me likes the way I am without it. My mind is quick. Creative. Overflowing with ideas. Inspired. I feel unstoppable. Funny. The other side? I haven’t completed anything. Not a single task aside from work this week. No laundry. No studying. I haven’t slept much. My mind is in overdrive when I close my eyes. I’ve been agitated. People have noticed. I thought I had everyone fooled. I am one of ‘those people’. I am noticeable. My brain feels heavy. Full. I am overloaded. I’m alright with it. I’ve accepted that I need a bit of help to make my mind work. I’m grateful for the disorganization in my brain. It has permitted me see things ‘outside the box’, have an open view. Be creative. Wacky. Full of nonsense. I no longer see it as a deficit. I see it as a quality.
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Posted on 4 March '11 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
I’m waiting. Waiting for what, I don’t exactly know. Direction? Happiness? That one specific moment in which it will all be clear? I’m unsure. I’ve been unsettled recently. Anxious. Edgy. As if there is something just beyond my grasp. Like that feeling when you’ve turned the lights out. Before your eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Your hand reaches out, guardedly, using the wall to steady yourself. Fingertips have replaced your eyes. Your senses are jumbled. Feeling ever so carefully for your destination. Your feet, cautious. Each step is taken gingerly, creeping along. You know where you are going. You know the way, yet you are suspicious. At this moment it is unclear. Dark. Uncertain. I know what I’m reaching for is there. It’s elusive for now. Lost in this darkness. Moving slowly. Someone has turned out the lights. I’m fumbling. I struggle forward, blindly. My arms are outstretched. Searching.
Tags: learning, life, loss, thoughts
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Posted on 27 February '11 by Tara, under Life. No Comments.
My brain is never in standby mode. Always analyzing. Thinking. Processing. Planning. Reviewing. Replaying. It does these things well. So well in fact, that more often than not, I need to stop and re-evaluate where I am instead of merely running on autopilot. Often times in my constant state of hyper brain activity, I forget to do so. This is when life, ever so graciously, slaps me in the face and hands me a bit of a reality check. This occured earlier this evening.
I was jogging and critizing myself. I wanted my legs to go faster. To carry me further. Not to hurt. I had to push myself to the end of the street. I have to be better. This isn’t good enough. It was when I got there that I realized something. Wait a minute, I’m jogging again! I haven’t done this in years! My thoughts began to pour through my brain then. Last year at this time, I barely left the house. I was unhappy. Depressed. Self-conscious. Sad. I went to work and returned home. Very few times did I go out other than for necessities. When I did venture out, it was to the bar. I drank, not to have fun, but to erase pain. I was running away. Exercising? At that point I was fortunate to have enough energy to complete what I absolutely needed to accomplish. I thought a bit more. Six months ago I was recovering from surgery when everything fell apart. Six months ago, I decided to take charge of myself again. Six months ago, I turned my world upside-down. I didn’t want to be unhappy anymore. I left my home. My husband. My dogs. My ‘life’. I boxed up my things. I collected the broken pieces of my existence. And I moved on. I stood there for moment on the street, while my iPod blared in my ears. It was then I smiled. I smiled because I realized what I’ve accomplished over the last few months. I smiled because I was strong enough to realize what was best for me and make it happen. But most of all? I smiled because throughout all of this, I’ve made it. I’m still here. And I’m alright. And damnit, I’m proud of that. Have there been days when I’ve cried to the point of exhaustion? More than a few. Days when I’ve felt as though I didn’t want to wake up the next morning? Yes. Has this been one of the most difficult times in my life? More so than I care to admit. So please, excuse me if there are days that I’m selfish. Or emotional. Maybe both. Tonight though, standing there in the street, I realized that I have come a long way from where I was. I am strong. Smart. Driven. I’m reclaiming my life and my independence. Finding happiness. Working on me. Am I where I want to be? No. Am I in the ideal living situation? Absolutely not. I don’t even have my own place at the moment. The contents of my life are in one room and a storage shed. I can’t even begin to guess where half of my things are. The best part? I’m not even sure I care. So to hell with any of those who think I’m foolish or that I’m doing this all wrong. I know I’ll end up where I’m supposed to be. Maybe I’ll be a bit bruised and a little weary. But I’m finding myself again. And that’s what matters.
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. You are the guy who’ll decide where to go.” -Dr. Seuss
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Posted on 25 November '10 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
10.25.03
7 years.
Still hurts.
Miss you everyday.
Love you, Dad.
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Posted on 25 October '10 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
My friend Greg uploaded his new song to Reverb Nation today. Check it out. ‘To Protect Yourself’
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Posted on 30 September '10 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
“I must learn to love the fool in me – the one who feels too much, talks to much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laugh and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool.”
-Theodore Isaac Rubin
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Posted on 25 September '10 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
I’ve been horrible at writing recently. My thoughts are tangled. Mismatched. Empty-like. Generic. Meaningless. When they come out, I hate them. Disassembled. Silly. They don’t fit together anymore. I’ve lost ‘it’, I think. The words are misplaced. I hate them. The way they look. How they sound. Juvenile. Mediocre. Feelings of disappointment. I have been working on something over the last few weeks but it just isn’t ‘it’. Seems as though I’m playing a screwed up version of Scrabble in my brain and the tiles I have I cannot form into words. No points for me. Frustrated.
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Posted on 22 September '10 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
Happy Birthday to me. I am doing exactly what I want today. With whoever I want. Where I want. (That’s not meant to be naughty, I promise.) This is the first time in 28 years that I haven’t thought about what everyone else wants me to do. And it feels good.
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Posted on 11 September '10 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
I’ve been silent. I’ve kept everything inside, mostly. This has not proven effective in the past. There have been days when I cry. I scream. I am filled with anger. You play the victim. I am to blame. Poor you, poor you. I’ve been silent. I’ve allowed you to curse me out. You’ve called me names. You tell me I’m pathetic. I’m sad, but true. I’m stupid. I ruined your life. You tell anyone who will listen. I’ve been silent. I’ve been silent since you told me you haven’t loved me for a very long time. That you weren’t sure if you ever did. I’ve been silent since you took your new love on a weekend getaway while I was at our home recovering from surgery. I’ve been silent since you verbally attacked me that day in May when I could barely stand. I’ve been silent through the slander. The hate. The insults. I allow you to paint me as a horrible beast, capable of unspeakable things; a heartless woman. A woman that turned you inside out and left you with nothing. This couldn’t be further from the truth. I tried. I tried to make you happy. I wasn’t perfect. I was jealous. Needy. I had high expectations. A control-freak. But I worked hard. I worked hard to make you feel loved. Needed. Special. I listened to you. Made you laugh. Held you. Fought for you. Supported you. Cared for you. I worked hard to try to create and maintain a seemingly perfect life. The cars. The dogs. The smile. The friends. The house. The parties. It was only a matter of time until I couldn’t keep up anymore. I wasn’t perfect. We fought. I yelled. Too much. I threw things. You always had that way of pushing me to the point where I lost control of my judgement. I allowed it to occur time and time again. I wasn’t perfect. I knew there were problems. I thought the solution could begin with me. Maybe if I just tried harder. Little things. Changing the way I reacted to your harsh words. Walking away instead of engaging you in an argument. Not being so extremely sensitive. It was a futile attempt. We slipped even further apart. You dodged me when I tried to hug you. I began to feel like your whore, only worthy of showing ‘affection’ to when you needed something. I wasn’t perfect. I began to slip away, choosing to seclude myself in a separate room. Reading. Studying. I began to rediscover the things that made me happy before you. Photos. Traveling. Writing. Friends. You didn’t seem to notice at first. I immersed myself in work. 16 hour days. Awake at dawn on off days to escape the increasingly gloomy house. I wasn’t perfect. I tried to warn you. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I tried to talk. You blamed me. Always me. I cried. Like always. Things became awkward. Dinner. We would sit in a restaurant. Silent. Two people. Husband and wife. Strangers. I was scheduled to work on your birthday for the first time in five years. No party. No cake. No festivities. No trip to New York to see your beloved baseball team. This, you noticed. In anger. I apologized. I wasn’t sorry. I wanted to say, ‘How does it feel? How does it feel to be ignored? Overlooked? Second best? A fleeting thought on someone’s mind? Do you now feel how I feel?’ Those thoughts were immature. Mean. Vindictive. I wasn’t perfect. I knew it was too late. Too late to fix. Too late to patch. Too torn to mend. The end unraveled quickly. A loose string in an already frayed hem. The fabric was too weak to withstand another thread being stripped away. That day in the garage. You asked me if I wanted to fix things. I said I didn’t know. I was hurt. In the next breath you told me you didn’t love me anymore. You hadn’t loved me for a long time. I tried to talk. I wanted you to listen. I wasn’t yelling. You berated me. Hateful words. Each time I attempted to walk away from your anger, you chastised me. I called the dog to come with me. She was scared. She didn’t move. ‘Hahahaha. See? Even your dog hates you and won’t come with you.’ Those words. Those simple, immature, stupid words. Those simple, foolish words. Meaningless to most, but I still hear you say them even now. It all became clear. Everything. I had to go. This wasn’t the life I thought it would be. The one I wanted to live. I wasn’t perfect. I am not blameless. I am at fault for the things I’ve said that I can’t take back. For those I am sorry. I am sorry if I hurt you. You say you don’t care. The words you use are those of one trying to seek revenge on another. I didn’t ruin your life. Only you are capable of allowing someone to do so. I’ve never said anything that has been dishonest or untrue. I won’t. I refuse. I’m not perfect. I’ve been silent. I can’t do it any longer. You play the victim. You know the role well. I am to blame.
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Posted on 5 September '10 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
I’ve been sitting here for a few hours, trying to come up with something for my sister’s graduation tonight. I bought her the book, ‘Oh the Places You’ll Go!’ by Dr. Seuss. I feel it’s fitting. I just need to write something inside the cover. Something sincere and meaningful. It seems like yesterday she was in 1st grade. We would joke about how old I would be when she would graduate. I always teased her, “2010? That’s forever away! You are going to be in school for a LONG time!” She would scowl and tell me to shut up. I would laugh. Now here we are. It’s 2010. I’m THAT old. We still laugh about it. Our conversations have moved to things like going for our master’s degree in nursing together. We now laugh because we could actually graduate together. Tonight is her big step out into the world. I hope I have found the appropriate words.
Tracey (Squeak):
“To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
First and foremost, I want you to know that I love you. No matter what. No matter where you are. No matter what you’re doing. I will always be here for you. To talk, to listen, to laugh, to cry, and everything in between. I know I have been tough on you, but I’m not sorry. I apologize for the times I have yelled, the times I have made you feel as though you couldn’t talk to me. I was wrong for that. I wish I could take those times back. I regret them. Before he died, Dad made me promise to look out for you. I am doing that the best I know how. And I’m sorry if I mess up sometimes. It’s hard for me, too. I know that I cross the line from being a sister to being a parent. My intentions are good, even if you don’t see them as so. I want you to succeed. I want you to shine. I want you to achieve all of your dreams. I want you to be happy. I want you to have a fantastic life. I want to help you in any way I possibly can. I know you will be and do ALL of those things and more. You are driven. You are dedicated. You are smart. You are funny. You are compassionate. You are beautiful. You are my sister. And I am so very proud of you. (Dad is too, I know it. Don’t forget that.) Remember to always be yourself and never allow anyone to tell you that you can’t. Stay true to you. Always be honest. Be proud of who you are and what you’ve accomplished, but never brag about it. Help others. Work hard. Admit when you’ve made a mistake. Never settle for less than what you want. Take risks. Be adventurous. Stand up for what you believe in. Most importantly? Remember to laugh. And always remember that you are loved. No matter what. I cannot wait to see how far you fly in life. You have done so many wonderful things already. Dad said this to me when I graduated, “Tara, you have the world at your fingertips. Go get it. You can do anything.” Now, I am saying the same to you. Tracey, you have the world at your fingertips. Go get it. You can do anything. I’m proud of you.
Love,
Tara
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Posted on 28 May '10 by Tara, under Uncategorized. No Comments.
